


every version of me

by schreibenzi



Category: Druck | SKAM (Germany)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Sense8 (TV) Fusion, Canon Trans Character, Coming Out, M/M, greek myth references, i said what i said, non binary matteo, trans author
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-04-06 18:55:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19068634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schreibenzi/pseuds/schreibenzi
Summary: Matteo is drowning in loneliness. Then he meets a girl in a bathroom.(i can't write summaries lmao)





	1. you'll find me alone at midnight

**Author's Note:**

> hi! 
> 
> @darkdodielove bullied me into finishing the first chapter of this, so here u go
> 
> i wanted to tag more but it won't let me tag things it doesn't suggest, so this story will involve mentions of every isak and their even, as well as cris (since nobody can decide if she's an isak or not) and engel who is an "isak" in our hearts, but it will focus more on Druck (obviously), NL, España and OGs isaks for the simple reason they're the ones i've seen and love.

Smoke caresses his hand as he exhales, enjoying the feeling of the air between his fingers. He's been alone in this bathroom for an hour, his friends having promised to join him. They probably got distracted. That's alright, he has the smoke for company. It makes a good friend, as it lingers in front of the light, surrounding him and comforting him. 

 

He sees this bathroom every day, but at this time of night, when people stand outside, drink in hand and music blaring, it looks wholly different. It's like another time. Another place. He doesn't want to leave. He wants to stay there, with the pale white wisps and the flickering joint between his fingers, arm over the side of the tub and legs bent in front of him. He feels safe in this room. 

 

There is a soft comfort to loneliness that he has come to know so well.  But there is a pain to it too. He feels, sometimes, as though he is Odysseus. He is a man on a journey, with no way of knowing what he will come across, if he will ever see the calming shore again. Is he to remain stuck in Poseidon's storm, Phaeacia too far away, long out of reach, out of mind? He feels like he hasn't seen the shore in years. Loneliness is both the quiet, the calm, the space to wallow, and it is the sea itself, the chaos, no time to rest as he battles to cling to something, to anything, else he knows he will drown. 

 

He doesn't notice the girl enter the room. She doesn't notice him in return, simply turning to the mirror and fixing her hair. Some has come loose from her braids, loose strands standing on edge in all directions. He notices her only when she coughs, a hoarse noise, as though she got caught in a smokers stream. In a way, she was. The room is less air and more filth, a thick fog made by one lone boy in a bathtub. 

 

He studies her, because what else is there to do. He can't talk to her in case he frightens her, in case his voice doesn't work, in case it comes out too raspy or too choked. 

 

If he is Odysseus, she is Penelope. Not his, not like the legend tells it, because the world doesn't favour him in that way. He has no Penelope. But she seems strong, something in her eyes speaking years beyond her own. She has tricked those who would not approve, she has lived a life in secret. He wants to talk to her. 

 

He doesn't. 

 

She turns to leave and catches his eye in the mirror. Time seems to stop, but not like a fairytale, when a prince lays eyes upon his princess. No. No, this is a mutual electricity that has nothing to do with attraction. She looks afraid, he looks blank. He always look blank. 

 

"How did you get in here?" she asks, as though this isn't his apartment, his bathroom. "I live here" he replies, and he should have known this would happen. His voice comes out too high, too suffocated. 

 

"No you don't…." She looks confused, as though facing a terrible puzzle. He holds out his joint to her, not knowing what else to do. She takes it, a nail catching against his skin. As she takes a drag, she studies the room, confusion still etched clearly on her face. "I could have sworn...I was somewhere else" 

 

"Well you're here now" he says with a shrug, turning so that his legs hang over the edge of the tub, back against the wall. She debates for a moment, but sits next to him, legs crossed and elbows on her knees. It's a funny sight, if it were to be seen by anyone else. A boy coated in misery, buried under thick wool and a cloud of disinterested, sat next to a girl who looks dressed for the sun, an aura of calm and of joy. She seems too...light. 

 

She isn't Penelope. She is Nausicaa. She is optimism and light, eternal and glowing. She is happy as she is, and he can tell. Even in a situation like this, where she has no idea where exactly she seems to be, she is calm. As though she almost expected this, but didn't even know it.  

 

"Who are you? If I'm sat in your bathroom, I deserve to know who you are" 

 

"Matteo" 

 

"I'm Cris. Soto." she replies, surname like an afterthought, even though he never asked for it. He was content with calling her Nausicaa.  

 

But Cris. Cris means follower of Christ. His mother would like that. He isn't so bothered, but it makes him think of her. He hasn't spoken to her in a while, and it makes bile rise in his throat to think of it, to think of how he left when she needed him the most. His ribs ache, and he's used to that, but this time they ache because he misses her warmth, her hugs, the way she always smells like cinnamon, even when she hasn't been baking. She is Anticleia, if he were to give her a name. She may still be breathing, unlike the broken woman of the tale, but she is underwater. She was choking on her sadness and he didn't know how to pull her out, so he left. A selfish choice, he thinks, and one he will always regret but can't bear to undo. Not yet. 

 

He takes back the joint, paint white nails once more catching his skin. Matteo wonders how she deals with them. 

 

"Are you ok?" she asks.

 

"Yeah" 

 

"Are you sure?" 

 

"Yeah" 

 

He takes a lungful of smoke, holding it as long as he can stomach. It empties his mind somewhat. It's as though the weighted fog is replaced by another, but this one is lighter. It hurts less, stings less, holds him down less. 

 

He doesn't know how long they sit like that, in silence, his head against the wall, eyes closed. But eventually the door rattles, and his friends stumble in. They look surprised to see him, and they pile into the bathtub, Abdi taking the place Cris had been. He hadn't seen her leave. Maybe he had fallen asleep, and she'd made it out of the room unknown. None of them mention her, so she must have blended into the crowd easily. He hopes she makes it home safe, wherever home is. 

 

As they start to talk about girls, the ones who held them up and the ones outside the door, he feels himself slipping back into emptiness. He never pays attention to these conversations, just responding when they expect him to, so they never know he doesn't care what they say. Matteo loves them, he really does, they accept him for everything he is, but they are oblivious. They don't notice the boy in the storm, clinging to the wreckage of his ship, struggling to stay afloat. They remind him to breathe, but they don't notice he can't. He stays in his room for days, and they don't notice. In a way, he's glad, he doesn't want them to worry, to dote on him or feel he is a burden. But sometimes, just sometimes, he wishes for Ino to pass him a veil and guide him from the waves.


	2. no sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> right sorry this took so long but im done with college now so i should be picking up pace with these chapters!! 
> 
> sorry if it seems i don't like lucas vdh i do, but this is matteos pov sooooo oops also sorry im so unnecessarily poetic asdghfjkl
> 
> follow me at @schreibenzi on tumblr !!
> 
> let me know in the comments who matteo should meet next!

It's too early for this, for the bustling streets, people knocking his shoulder as they barge past with no care in the world. He just wants to catch his bus to go home. He'd been shopping, so his tolerance for people was running quite low already, plus the bags are heavy, weighing him down like bricks.

When he finally finds an empty seat, right at the back where nobody will bother him, he can relax. He takes a moment to rub his hands together, trying to work the blood back into his fingers. Today he feels alright, the storm calmed somewhat, Poseidon having played his games enough for one day. It is only when he feels a tap to his shoulder that the waves begin to rumble once more.

He looks up, and comes face to face with thunder. This boy who sits next to him, next to the handful of bags he'd placed on the seat, looks like he has a rage inside of him. He is ice and wooden shutters...ah. Yes. He is Agamemnon. There is sacrifice in his heart, and Matteo can see something in the way the sun catches his eyes, that looks all too similar to his own. That same look as when he stands under the flickering of a fluorescent bathroom light at midnight. He looks as though even his bones are made of lies.

"Uh, yes?"

"Where does this bus go?" he asks. He talks with a tongue accustomed to snarling out a lie as quick as a flash, just as Agamemnon was quick to forget his sins to rage at his wife for hers. Agamemnon had his fate coming, and Matteo wonders what this boy has in store for him.

"Shouldn't you know? You got on it"

Agamemnon, for he doesn't know his name, looks confused. "I didn't choose to. You of all people should understand that."

"And what does that mean?"

"I'm Lucas" he says, as though that should clear everything up for him. As though his name is a tale spoken by a thousand people each night, a story of a great man who waged a war and freed a land. He even has the ego. He is more Agamemnon than any man Matteo has ever had the misfortune of meeting before.

"Matteo"

"I know"

"Oh." That is all he can say. What else are you meant to say to a strange boy, with a strange look in his eye, with _strange_ words to say.

Matteo uses the rest of their journey to really study him. He can't quite grasp the name he gave him. It isn't right. There is something missing, some grand inflection, some statement. Maybe he has a regal surname. Maybe he _was_ the great Mycenaean king...maybe he still is. He sits with his shoulders high, but not closed in, face a blank slate, a look Matteo wishes he could master himself. He looks as though he knows secrets beyond those Matteo could ever imagine, and he had looked at him as though he was a bratty child missing the point of their mothers speech. He feels small, utterly inferior, a peasant before a monarch.

When the bus reaches his stop, Matteo fears that the king would follow him, but he steps off it alone. The wind whips around his face, breaking him free of that haunting encounter. Who was that boy? Why did he know him?

It isn't a very long walk to his apartment, and yet in that short span, his phone vibrated at least ten times. Carlos must be wanting to go to another party, or Abdi has gotten lost venturing the streets again, always looking for a new place to explore and typically regretting it when he can't find his way back. Matteo isn't really feeling it, and tells them so when he sees that it is Jonas, this time, who wants to go to a house party. Another sweltering room, more people than sense, music which rattles your bones. It isn't quite Matteo's thing. At least this way, there are no chances of running into any more unusual people.  He can simply stay home and wallow in his confusion and his trepidation. He feels as though he was meant to know him. Something about him seemed familiar. Like with Cris, his Nausicaa in the bathroom. They share something, something he can't quite pinpoint just yet.

He has no idea what's going on, and continues to mull it over until it's two in the morning and he's burned through all his weed. He can't find rest, his eyes can't seem to close and his mind refuses to slow down. All he can wonder is if there are more of these unusual people. More people who remind him of himself, but in a way a reflection would if it were covered in a film, distorted enough so that it may be someone else, but you still see _you._

He is still thinking, worrying that he hadn't even been real, just a figment of his imagination, when he comes across an account baring his face. That same look, eyes like the tide coming into the shore amidst a gale, the angles of his face suiting the man he mirrors. Lucas van der Heijden. A name befitting such a boy, such a phenomenon as he. The pictures don't match, the expressions look so unlike he did on the bus, as though he has his armour, imperfect as it is, and _this_ . One photograph shines out to him the most, however. Lucas stood in front of a wall, the muted yellows of the flowers making everything softer, making _him_ softer.

No longer does he appear to be a king, the war hardened Agamemnon, unfeeling towards the world and willing to make the greatest sacrifice in order to ensure he remains grand in the eyes of all those who witness him. No. He is Telemachus. He is a boy, simply a young man, strong for the world and looking for his place. He too has his secrets, his wishes and his fears, but to those insolent enough to demand of him, he is poison and a reckoning like no other. This version of him encased in light is the version Matteo feels must be the truth, because the thunder has cleared around him. Yes. He has more in common with this boy than he thought he did.

Only then, his eyes catch the caption, the words foreign to him in more ways than one. He feels dumb, but he puts them through google translate. Dutch. Huh. He looks through his other photos, all recent, all seemingly from the same place. Maybe he moved. Maybe, maybe, maybe. All these maybes and no certainties. He has no idea what any of this means, where Lucas comes from, where Cris is, what seems to be happening to him. He feels more lost than ever, wandering through lands he doesn't understand as a storm rages inside of him. He _needs_ to understand, or he fears he will find himself wandering forever.

He clicks follow.


	3. im a walking tragedy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one seems kinda rushed and very chaotic but i didn't know how else to do this, and kinda wanted the cluster discussion out of the way, but don't worry, there's a tiny bit at the end i hope you'll like adfjlkhdg
> 
> as usual you'll find me at @schreibenzi on tumblr 
> 
> yes it's 1am when im posting this. sh. 
> 
> sorry again this one is so mehhh

In a week, he sees four more. The first, a boy who looks more afraid than anything, tall and serious, though his eyes hold kindness. He sits beside him for an hour in class, not speaking, just watching. It's a little unsettling, and Matteo can think of no mirror for this boy, no likeness to a great warrior, to a tragic hero or a forgotten woman. He knows too little, and thinks that is how it will stay.

His nameless sidekick is followed by rage incarnate. He is Aristophanes' Dionysus, testing and clipped, waiting for a mistake so that he can prove you unworthy. He looks as though he should be softer, be kinder, though he is not. Another Lucas, he discovers, which seems fitting considering the first. He is followed by a girl, _finally_ another girl. She has braids down her back, an expression used to being closed off, a tone that drips with sarcasm and jokes. He likes her, though their meeting is too brief, once more, to think of her likeness. She seems implacable, as though a mould cannot hold her, or that she doesn't know herself as much as she imagines.

One more follows her in the span of a few days. They seem to come quickly one after the other, as though a pageant of people he is meant to know but never sees more than once. This one…this one makes him falter. He exudes a confidence no other possesses. Achilles is his name, before Matteo can find out no more than the flashing of his eyes and the curls poking out from beneath a cap. This boy seems to glow with something none of them have, and when he speaks, it becomes clear. He found his place in the world. He has a love that will span a lifetime, a support through it all, and like Achilles he would fight for that love, as he fought for Patroclus.

He isn't ashamed of this, of telling someone who is by all accounts a stranger. He doesn't tell Matteo how they met, though he comes to know their name, Even, what they do for a living, where they live, about their friends, their school. He divulges all of these secrets out of pride, and doesn't expect Matteo to reveal anything of his own. For that, he is grateful. Achilles and his mercy, little known so all the more a blessing when received.

He stays with him, doesn't stop talking, telling Matteo all about Oslo as though he's been before. He doesn't notice his confusion. Though neither did the Lucas on the bus, with the closed off eyes and razor sharp smile, as he expected his name to solve all of Matteo's problems. It is only when they reach the WG that Isak stops talking. He stands there, in the middle of the room, as Matteo makes himself some toast. He offers him some, and is refused.

"Who did you meet first?"

"Huh?" he replies, a question to a question, knife scraping against the toast.

"Who did you meet first. You know, because you didn't seem too shocked. Who was it first? Martino?"

"I don't know a Martino"

"Shay?"

"No."

He fires out another name, some Rubio boy. This is becoming tedious, and confusing, more so than the monologue. He doesn't know what's happening except for the fact he's beginning to get a headache. He feels exhaustion seeping into his bones.

"I don't know what game you're playing-"

"Cris?"

And his breathing stops. Just for a second.

"Cris…Soto?" he asks, hoping beyond hope he has it wrong.

"Yes! So you _do_ know. Lucas, the uh, the Dutch one, he said you were aloof, kind of unsure. Looking at him...kind of how you're looking at me now. You don't...you don't know what any of this all means, do you?" he's rambling, be it nerves or excitement, Matteo doesn't know.

"Obviously not" he replies, shoving the corner of his toast into his mouth. He fears these people, these warriors and mysteries, queen's and gods and mythology on earth, he fears they are all playing some form of elaborate prank.

"We're…part of a cluster. I can explain it all!" he rushes to add, as Matteo's eyebrows draw closer and his shoulders move towards his ears. "It's...kind of like in a movie, where people are in the same frame even when they're world's apart. Right now, I'm in my apartment in Oslo, but I'm also here. And Lucas was in class in Amsterdam and ended up on your bus. Sometimes, when you're lonely, we appear-"

He must be going mad. He is Agave, and they are the deity messing with his head, his perception, his thoughts. He is descending into madness, surely, for they cannot actually exist. But he knows, he knows in his heart Isak is right, for he saw Lucas van der Heijden, saw that profile, his intangible proof that he is real. How can this be. How can _any_ of this be.

He is so lost in his head he doesn't realise Isak is waiting for him to speak. He just looks at him, blank, unsure of what to say. It seems Isak gets the message.

"I asked if you understood. It's complicated, and I get that. But you'll get used to it"

"It doesn't feel real"

"I know. It didn't feel real for me either, for a while. But it is, you're not imagining anything."

He doesn't quite believe that, even with the proof he has. It all feels too unreal, too mystical, too much like the shows he buries himself in when he has nothing else to do, like the stories he spends his days reading. He surrounds himself with fiction, with tales and journeys and science and fantasy. This feels too much like one of his late night finds, some indie movie set in an alternate reality. One where people teleport and can go all over the world in seconds, abandon their current home for a new one somewhere completely new. If that were true, he would be long gone by now. Matteo would be as far from this place as he could get. He definitely wouldn't go back to Italy, even if he was paid to. Not for anyone or anything.

Isak is saying something else, but once more he's inside his own head. He's trying to get his thoughts back on track, and he's struggling. They're fighting him, wanting to keep thinking of new lands to explore, far from the bullshit he has to deal with here. But if he's being honest, most of it would follow him, like a cloud of misery he is destined to be stuck with no matter where he goes and what he does.

"I don't think you're listening. So I'm going to go. But...yeah. Sorry it's so much to take in…"

And when he looks up, he's alone.

It takes a while for him to come back to himself, the sky deep sea blue by the time he can focus. By then, all he can feel is the buzzing in his head and the aching in his ribs. It's been hours, well over what it should have been, so finally, he goes to change. He doesn't eat, he doesn't drink, he doesn't think. He just _does_ as though a machine, automated and controlled. His ribs can breathe, but he feels as though he is once again submerged underwater, unable to kick his way back up to safety.

This is far too much for him to handle.

He scrolls through Instagram, just the mindless movement of his thumb, until an idea strikes him. Isak. There can't be that many people called- ah, there he is. Isak Valtersen. The first thing he notices is that Even is a guy, which he hates to admit wasn't much of a shock. It's mostly due to the almost purposeful ambiguity Isak used in reference to him, as though the sheer mention of anything _gay_ would send Matteo running. If only he knew.

There they _all_ are. Martino Rametta. Shay Dixon. Lucas Lallemant. Cris Soto. Lucas Rubio. Robbe Ijzermans. That last one he hasn't met yet...probably.

He follows them all because he feels like he needs to, he needs to see that they're really there or he's going to collapse. This is way too much, it's overwhelming him completely. But. But...maybe this is good. Maybe. Maybe it means he's not alone. That though he has friends who he can rely on, and roommates who tolerate him, that pit of loneliness that settles in his stomach can possibly be filled.

It's a start at least.

It's another week before he comes to terms with it. With this 'cluster' _thing_. Blame slow processing, or his vehement refusal to deal with important things in his life, but he finally gets there. When he spends the morning with Cris it still feels weird, but at least she's new to it too, so they can share that. She's nice, his Nausicaa. He should stop calling her that, but it keeps her familiar. Keeps her close. It keeps her in the bubble of things he holds to his chest, tight to his heart.

And then it happens. No sooner had he finally somewhat settled his mind, than he saw _him_.

They lock eyes, and the world stops spinning. He is now the axis for which the universe rotates, he is everything at once, he is beauty and he is agony, he is hope and he is despair. He is the enigma which captivates Matteo from the first glance. He knows, he knows in his heart of hearts, beyond the muscle and the bones of his body, deep in his soul, that this boy...he is forever, somehow. He is eternity embodied and oh how beautiful it looks. 

Matteo stares at his future, and he stares right back.


End file.
